"YOU DON'T MATTER"

“You Don’t Matter”

TW: Suicidal thoughts

It’s not a phrase I say to myself or anyone else often. But earlier this week, I told it to myself over and over as I did the best I could to help save a friend’s life.

It started after my first Zoom call of the workday, when I checked in on a friend who told me the night before that she was going through an extremely hard time. When I read Sami’s (name changed for privacy) message, my heart began to pound.

She described a sleepless night filled with horrific nightmares that she’d tried to chase away with Xanax, painkillers, and muscle relaxers all at the same time. She didn’t sound like herself at all, and at the end of the message, she wrote that she didn’t know how to go on, or if she could go on.

I instantly felt myself thrown back years, to the point when I locked myself in the chapel bathroom of my college because there was nothing in there that I could use to hurt myself. I was terrified, thinking there was no way out for me either - and then I reached out to my mom, who called my psychiatrist in a three-way call and got me on the fastest path to treatment.

It’s a time in my life that I hate to think about, but it was my only reference for the situation going forward. It didn’t matter that I have spent so much time trying to forget - it mattered that I remember the suicide hotline, the way I felt, the things I needed from those around me.

Our experiences seemed similar the more she told me, even though they had completely different catalysts. I was even taking Xanax at the time, thankfully stopping after experiencing reactive anxiety. As I talked to her, I remembered waking up early after fighting so hard to go to sleep, running over to the gym even though I’ve never been a fan of working out, just to try to get some of the nervous energy out of my system. I remembered how disgusting food seemed to me, how my best friend sat on the floor with me and coaxed me into eating a bowl of Rice Krispies with no milk. I wished to be sitting on the floor with Sami, helping her in any way I possibly could instead of being hundreds of miles away, behind a computer screen.

The only thing I could think of was to reach out to the chat line of the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/), which I could do while being on my next Zoom call. I paid just enough attention to not call attention to myself at work while I typed everything that was going on to a counselor.

In that moment, Sami didn’t need my platitudes or what had - or hadn’t - worked for me. She didn’t need to know my sordid history with Xanax or the fact that I was so terribly scared. Instead, she needed to hear the suicide prevention counselor’s words coming from my mouth, and in turn, that would help those of us not in her situation figure out what to do next.

One of the first things the counselor asked me to write to her was to ask, point blank, if Sami was considering hurting herself. No euphemisms, he said - that way, there’s no room for confusion. It had been a long time since I’d written something like that, instead preferring to use euphemisms and hide from what I’m afraid of.

But that day, it didn’t matter that I categorically refuse to watch TV shows or movies with suicide scenes and often choose to skip ones that even mention it at all. It didn’t matter that even just typing the word “suicide” scares me. What mattered was that she needed someone to ask her if she was thinking of hurting herself, no matter what that might look like.

Any answer that isn’t a “no,” to me, is an unequivocal sign of danger. She said “kinda,” and that she was feeling weak and worthless, too much to carry on. She said how easy it would be to just take some more Xanax and slip away into sleep, never to feel the pain again.

At that point, I typed frantically in the chat, conveying her responses to the counselor. He helped me figure out some followup questions - how much medicine she’d taken, how she was feeling physically, and after the questions, to just let her talk and show that I’m listening.

She told me more about what had been happening, and eventually told me she wanted to try to sleep again. I was worried, especially since she’d taken another Xanax while we were talking, but at that point there wasn’t much else the counselor could do. He told me to dial the hotline and get some local help over to her just in case, someone to talk with in person even during the pandemic. Someone with more training than me, even though I wanted to swoop in and fix everything myself.

Back when I was experiencing suicidal thoughts, I remember who came to help me: two police officers, kind but seeming a little out of their depths as they didn’t really know what to say. They gave me a survey that asked a bunch of questions about my mental state as they drove me to the hospital, and the only one I remember is whether I was feeling hopeless. It was a straight-up “yes” from me, but I realized I couldn’t picture Sami trusting a quiz from police officers or wanting to be taken to a hospital. She wasn’t quite in the worst danger possible, and I couldn’t just impose what worked for me.

As I picked up my cell phone to call the hotline, I could almost see my reflection in the chapel basement mirror on the blank screen - but that didn’t matter at all. I dialed the hotline, then contacted a local organization on their recommendation.

Someone from the local organization called Sami, presumably told her that I’d given them her number and some basic information, and the counselor agreed with me that she seemed like she needed in-person help. Even though I wanted to stay texting with her for as long as I could, even if just to feed my insatiable desire to control the uncontrollable situations in life, my needs didn’t matter. She needed someone who could be in her house and help her, and the counselor sent over a crisis response team to help.

It fell to me to get them there - I had two different records of her address, one of which came from a mutual friend who’d been to her apartment before. I never had, so I ended up asking him the things the crisis team asked me when they couldn’t find her apartment. It didn’t matter that I was getting increasingly frazzled and had yet another call in a few minutes, and this one, I was supposed to be leading. It mattered that I tell everything our mutual friend said to the crisis team, even though I got off the phone only moments before my call was scheduled to begin.

All that mattered, in the end, was that the crisis team found Sami - crying, panicked, but alive - and they were in her apartment with her.

Only at that point, once I knew Sami was safe, did I allow my own feelings to matter. After my last work call of the day, I took a long walk with my mom, played video games with my dad, and hugged my dog. I ate ice cream, made plans to see my Nana (socially distantly and masked), and let myself feel overwhelmed and panicked and everything that I thought needed to come out earlier. I even started to grieve for a torn-apart friend group that might be too far gone for me to fix, that will hurt my own life but thankfully not nearly as much as Sami is hurt.

As someone who’s been sharing my mental health story for over two years on No Shame On U’s blog, I have a lot of experience with making my history matter. But this experience has showed me that listening to what is needed by the most vulnerable person in a conversation can be exactly the right thing to do. What matters most is finding out what really matters - and what can help someone in need find the way forward.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

THE THERAPY GAMES

The Therapy Games

When I saw the byline of an article in a newspaper recently, my mind instantly transported me to the single-stall bathroom at work, where I took a call from a psychiatrist who I was hoping to see regularly shortly after I moved to Chicago.

My psychiatrist who had been treating me since childhood told me that, once I moved, I should try to find another provider who would be closer. That way, I could have in-person visits instead of phone calls (good old pre-COVID days), and my medication could be evaluated in-person, something that I’ve needed in the past even if I don’t need it right now.

I started looking up psychiatrists in the area, and soon found the name of the doctor who wrote this article. I emailed him and he seemed professional, and he set up a phone call with me to explain how the practice worked and set up an appointment. I took that call in the bathroom of my office, the most private place I could get to in the middle of the day, and looked forward to what would hopefully be another good therapeutic relationship.

Instead, I was greeted with some of the most condescending language I’ve ever heard from a professional. He would ask me a question, I would answer, and then he would completely disregard everything I said, all the while talking to me like I had never heard of mental health before, had never been diagnosed with anything, and had not - like I told him - gotten therapy for over 20 years.

I distinctly remember getting a look at my face in the mirror as he told me, “Sweetie, you don’t need to be afraid of getting therapy for the first time,” right after I finished telling him about my psychiatrist back home. My face was completely blank and - a rarity - I was stunned into silence. He took this as confirmation that his theory was right, and kept telling me all about how he was going to fix me, all the while I bit my tongue and lip and anything I could think of to not tell him exactly what I was thinking.

At the end of the call, he pushed very hard for me to schedule an appointment, but I told him I needed more time to think. I heaved a sigh of relief as I leaned against the sink, but I was also distressed that I hadn’t been able to find a good psychiatrist.

“That’s just one bad apple,” I thought. “They’re not all like that,” I told myself as I scheduled more calls that ended badly, wrote more emails that never got answered, and searched the Internet deeper and deeper with no results in sight.

Eventually, I found somewhere else to try. This place was downtown, relatively easy to get to from work, and even though the person on the phone was all too eager to try to get me to sign up for hypnosis, I still tried an introductory appointment.

As soon as I walked in, I felt like the doctor was taking me through a Buzzfeed-style “Are You Crazy?” quiz with completely irrelevant questions that felt like he wanted me to answer in certain ways in order to be his patient. I realized, halfway through his thick sheaf of paper, that I was trying to be a perfectionist and answer the questions “right” rather than be honest about what was actually in my head.

Needless to say, I never returned to that practice - but the problem persisted.

I kept looking around, having similar experiences with any place that was willing to even consider that I was not a “beginner” in therapy. Many places rejected me outright, as I didn’t need diagnostic services or an intensive “boot camp”-like program where I would have to take huge amounts of time off of work and spend thousands of dollars to “get me started.”

I branched out, starting to look for therapists in addition to psychiatrists. I could see a therapist, I thought, and then if I’m not doing well, I could go to my internist (who I chose for her experience working with people with anxiety) and let her know to change the prescription. It would be a pain - if it even worked - but that opened a lot more doors, and I was able to eventually find a place down the street from me with availability outside of my working hours.

I felt like I had to go to the fringes to find a practice that was willing to work with me and both my mental and financial situations, and even when I found a therapist there, I was surprised by many hidden fees and by the lack of understanding in much of the advice I received.

“Just quit your job, it’d make you happier,” the new therapist said to me when I told her about a problem I was having at work. It was right after the pandemic started, and while my friends were losing their jobs left and right, I felt lucky to have my job, even though I was at the point where I felt miserable every time I had to step into the physical office. But I was quarantining at home - many states away, in fact - and quitting my job then would only have made things harder for me.

After a few sessions, I figured out what was rubbing me the wrong way: she was always very keen on encouraging my thoughts, which I like in terms of creative writing, but can be harmful in terms of actual life practices. If I feed too much into thoughts, whether positive or negative, I don’t end up in a good place, and this has happened enough that I can recognize it now. But if a therapist is telling me to follow these thoughts, I feel conflicted and make mistakes.

It got to the larger problem of her not really understanding me or what I was looking for, and although the office is certainly local and convenient, I don’t know if I’d be interested in going back. I feel like I gain so much more from a phone call with a psychiatrist who has seen me through all my ups and downs and doesn’t need to offer me generic advice or encourage my bad ideas.

The sad part of this is that many of my friends never had that stable therapeutic relationship that I am so thankful for and have now fallen back on. I can’t even say how many times I’ve been told by a friend that they know they’re not working with a therapist who can help them, but this therapist is either the only option financially or in order to keep the fact that they’re getting therapy a secret. Or, they’ve played the games I have and gotten so disillusioned with the whole process that they don’t even want to try again.

I keep wishing I could send my friends to my psychiatrist, but even if I could, that wouldn’t fix the problem that so many people are facing - it’s so hard to get into a good therapeutic relationship that people are suffering for no reason. I don’t know how to fix it, but as I read that article, I found myself wondering about the patients of the doctor who wrote it. Did they genuinely enjoy his advice, or was the relationship one of convenience?

I hope that, one day, I will hear more stories like mine than like my friends’. I know that my relationship with my psychiatrist is a major reason why I’m doing as well as I am considering the severity of certain things I’ve faced. It’s something that inspires me to fight the stigma, part of which involves getting people the help they need. If it wasn’t so hard to find therapists, and there were enough easily-located options that people could have a choice, I think the system could be reformed to the point where no one has to play games with their mental health.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

OLD AND NEW

Old and New

With the inauguration of President Biden yesterday, I and many people I know are thinking about change - out with the old, in with the new. This idea has me thinking about my greatest passion, creative writing. I wanted to write to commemorate the occasion, but lately, it feels like my ability to write stories is hindered by my seeming inability to create a coherent plot arc.

So, instead of something new, I think of something old. Thanks to the way thoughts cycle through my head, I relive the same scenes of the same stories in my head for years on end. I can do it multiple times in the same week - or the same day - and feel happy and creative every time. As I look for something new in my craft, however, I find myself increasingly looking towards how I’ve always written stories as repetitively as I think.

As I watched the inauguration, I thought back to election night in 2012, where I brought Cheerios to my college’s bipartisan watch party (good old picky eating) and noticed an older man hovering towards the back of the room. Sure, he was probably a professor, but I didn’t know him, and for whatever reason, I started to wonder what would happen if a senator who was up for election was not at home on election night.

“Why wouldn’t he be home?” I asked myself, and quickly answered my own question: “He is having trouble in his marriage and thinking of getting a divorce.” Later that week, I wrote a short story of that scene. The next year, I revisited my old idea and wrote a new short story about the woman he was having an affair with, and started to delve into his wife’s mental health problems. This story idea was three years old when I turned it into my undergraduate thesis for my creative writing degree, and I have never loved a story so fiercely nor fought for it so hard when I was told - frequently - that it was too much work, too much research, and I should quit.

The last few years, for National Novel Writing Month, I have done something similar to the process I used to create that novel. I keep a list of old ideas on my computer, and instead of brainstorming something new, I instead brainstorm a new take on an old idea. I’ll work on the same project over and over, bringing something new to the mix every time.

The story of a video game NPC (non-playable character) who gains sentience started out as a story of someone learning how the world works, and by the next year, it was about the conflict of extricating oneself from a toxic friendship while saving a video game world from a corrupt hero. The story of a prophet who hears messages from the wrong god turned into a tale of sisterhood across enemy lines. The story of a young man who works together with his brother’s ghost to save a friend and learn that there is more to life than avenging the past is something I’m having trouble with, but would love a new take.

I find it easy to put ideas like this on the back burner whenever it isn’t November, however, because I can so easily get stuck in ideas of the past. I feel such joy when I revisit scenes from old stories, whether original fiction or fanfiction of books, movies, or games that hold a special place in my heart.

I sometimes wonder if this feeling is as strange to people as the fact that I literally never get bored of my favorite foods or songs and could repeat the same menu or playlist every single day. Just as OCD enables me to worry about the same things over and over, and also come up with new and increasingly terrifying ways to worry about these things, it also enables me to find joy from the same things over and over.

I get the same thrill putting on a cosplay for the tenth time that I did the first, even if the fabric is starting to fray and the wig slides down my head all too easily. I’ve watched a special Cameo video an amazing friend sent me for my birthday, of a movie star from the Lord of the Rings movies singing to me and offering me trivia questions, at least a dozen times, and every time brings me the same euphoria as the first. Same goes for eating Italian food and “grinding” (repeating levels) in video games - it never gets old.

And yet, there is also an immense thrill to something new. When I first got that Cameo video, I cried so hard through the first playthrough that I couldn’t even hear what the movie star was saying. When I try on a brand-new cosplay, I feel so confident that I make friends easily and so energetic that I can at least double my usually-high daily step count.

In the past, I’ve always favored the old over the new, due to the ease and the fact that I don’t have to deal with change. But I’ve become inspired to try to do more new things, both in my writing and in my everyday life, as the country also starts something new. To get things going, I’ve ordered some picture cards - some of my favorite writing tools - and I will write a story about a completely new character when they arrive. Maybe this character will find a place in one of my old stories, or maybe, I will take the time to learn more about plotting and create a story just for them. It’s uncertain, which means it’s a little frightening, but just like all new things, it can also give a lot more than it takes.

I sometimes find it hard to appreciate new things, especially changes to my routine. But even during the pandemic, I’ve had time to appreciate new traditions instead of mourning for old ones, and whenever I read a new book, play a new game, or watch a new show, I always look forward to finding the next thing my brain will latch onto.

This year, I hope to find more of the fun of not knowing what happens next, instead of the fear. It’s a tall order, but a good step to take when so many things feel routine. Between my joy in the past and hope for the future, I hope I’ll be able to rekindle my writing soon. Sinking into a story wholeheartedly has always been my favorite part of my OCD, and it would be a welcome newness to the routine I’ve fallen into during the pandemic.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

SELF CARE IS FOR EVERYONE

Self Care is for Everyone

This week, as the country reels from an unprecedented event, it’s hard to think of what to say. There are no easy platitudes to make people who now feel unsafe feel safe, and many people I know are having trouble processing everything that’s happening right now.

At a time with no straightforward solutions to problems that seem insurmountable, it can be so easy to feel anxious, sad, worried, panicked, or distressed. For many of my friends, even people who are usually very calm, this is a hard time to be strong.

Self-care has become extremely important among many people I know, including myself, after last week’s events. This means everything from eating and sleeping to taking care of your mental health, which some people have asked me how to do as they are unused to trying this out. I’ve even heard some people say that self-care is for people who live with mental illness and therefore “need it.”

Let’s face it: between the pandemic, election season, and the Capitol, we could all use some self-care, whether we use it as an everyday practice or have never tried it before. 

If you need some tips to get started, here are some things that help me calm down when the world feels overwhelming:

One of my favorite techniques is breathing in a box. My therapist told me to visualize that I was drawing a square box with my breath - the first inhale is the bottom-left corner going up, which takes four seconds. Then, I spend four seconds holding my breath - an even line for the top of the box. Then, I let out the breath in four seconds to make a line going down from the top-right corner, and wait four seconds to make the bottom of the box before beginning again.

Breathing like that forces me to slow down and focus on the actual breath itself. I’m not exactly good at meditation or many other breathing techniques, but this one feels right for me. Whenever I start to feel myself getting overcome by stress, I breathe in this box to remind me of two things: I can slow down my thoughts the way I slow down my breathing, and I can also visualize my thoughts staying in one place - like a box - instead of taking over my whole head.

Speaking of shapes, I’ve also been getting interested in adult coloring books. I used to be very rigid with what things I could make what colors, but now, I’m trying to let loose and just have fun with shapes and colors. I also learned how to cross-stitch during the pandemic, and like several friends, I’ve been working on projects that make me happy and keep my hands and head busy.

When I’m looking to keep my head busy, I find that writing stories in my head is the best way for me to chase out thoughts I don’t like. I do some form of this every day - I fall asleep to stories most nights and sometimes even dream them before beginning to write them again in the morning. Even though my stories don’t always take place in worlds that are happy, it can make me feel better to have some sort of control of what’s going on, even if only in my mind.

Control also plays an important part in the way I take care of my body - making sure I take time to have hot, relaxing showers and enjoy foods I love in moderate quantities are great ways to foster happiness every day. I’ve also sought sensory comforts like cuddling up in my favorite pajamas, hugging my family’s dog (who is 14 years old and always looking for a snuggle buddy), and taking walks outside for the feeling of (albeit cold) fresh air.

Another thing I’ve been doing throughout the pandemic is rationing my intake of the news. Although I find it very important to know what’s going on in the country and the world at large, I started to find myself checking the news far too much and getting upset every time I did. For several months, I didn’t watch live TV as things were happening; instead, I read articles about what had happened the previous day so that I wasn’t bombarded with unsureties. I kept this up through the election cycle and everything that happened in the Capitol, and even though I sometimes feel behind, I know - after trial and error - that this is the right decision for me.

All in all, self-care is about taking care of yourself in the way that makes the most sense for you. What works for me might work for you, or it might not. Everyone is different in this regard, but self-care is important for all of us to feel safe, comforted, and like we are retaining some sense of normalcy amid chaos.

I encourage everyone reading this to find some way to take extra care of yourself in these troubling times. If none of the things I’ve mentioned resonate with you, take some time to Google different solutions or find a way to incorporate some of your favorite relaxation techniques into your day. It may sound silly, but even a few minutes of calm can help the whole day’s productivity and happiness. Regardless of the presence or absence of a mental health diagnosis, self-care can help you, and is a great way to start 2021 with a new mindset.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

OBSESSED

Obsessed

Every time I hear the word, a shiver goes down my spine.

I usually find myself facing an impulse to negate it as soon as I hear it. Usually, it comes in a context like “I’m so obsessed with this new TV show” or “I’m obsessed with your nails, they’re so pretty!” It’s not presented in a negative way in the slightest, and it’s become so ubiquitous that when I type the word into a Google doc, the autofill suggests that I say I’m “obsessed with” something too.

The dictionary says that to obsess over something is to be preoccupied with it, potentially to an extreme degree. There is a connotation of worry or trouble, and even some language similar to definitions I’ve seen for intrusive thoughts. Synonyms range from thoughts that are frequent to thoughts that occupy, like an enemy invasion. It even goes so far as “besiege,” my favorite synonym because it comes closest to what I feel obsession is truly like.

No one would say they are “besieged” by thoughts of their favorite new Instagram account, book they’re reading, or fashion accessory. But it’s perfectly acceptable - if not common - to say that they’re “obsessed” with these things.

To me, using the word “obsessed” in a context that is solely a hyperbole of liking something demeans my experience of - as the dictionary says - living with “a personality characterized by perfectionism, indecision, conscientiousness, concern with detail, rigidity, and inhibition.” It makes people take people like me less seriously if I say I have an obsessive thought, since the idea of it seems quite normal. To people who don’t know better, there is no difference between being “obsessed” with a favorite movie and the way the “Lord of the Rings” movies were front and center in how I fight back against tidal waves of obsessive thoughts when I was little.

For me, an obsession about a positive thing is not a “want.” It’s a deep need to twist the negative elements of my mind into something positive and stop myself from spiraling out of control. It’s a coping mechanism I barely accept in myself even after being told by multiple therapists that it’s the best thing I can do to keep myself happy. It still feels bad to me, though, because all my life, I’ve associated the word “obsession” with negative connotations.

To me, it’s only a step away from someone saying they’re “so OCD” if they wash their hands before they eat or alphabetize their bookshelf. It’s making my entire lived experience seem like a joke, which only makes it harder for me and people like me to seek help and get taken seriously by those who we confide in.

My family - small, close-knit, and extremely supportive - knows how I feel and never uses the word. But when I’m out and about, even with my closest friends, I run into it constantly. Every friend of mine except for my best friend from college has used it around me for a positive thing that makes my skin crawl, but I never want to say anything in the fear of looking like I’m too sensitive or needy as a friend.

And so I bite my tongue. I let people talk about all the things they’re “obsessed with,” but I never join in on the conversation. I instead let my mind drift to the things I am legitimately obsessing about, or have obsessed about in the past. I space out from the present, and I fight the impulse to distance myself - even if just a little - from a friend who I suddenly wonder if they can understand me at all.

After all, no one would really understand if I were to say something like “I’m obsessing about whether I remembered to bring my keys when I left my apartment today and checked my purse pocket at least twice.” No one would know what to say if I mentioned any of the phobias I obsess about or any of the traumatic memories in my head that cycle around thanks to the repetitive nature of obsessions.

In my opinion and experience, using words that relate closely to mental illness to describe everyday experiences makes it harder for a person to admit that they have a problem or get a friend to understand what they’re going through. If I told a friend I was having an “obsession problem,” they might simply assume that I have been procrastinating on my chores and work to binge-watch something on Netflix. Then, the fact of how much an obsession disrupts a life could make the sufferer look needy, dramatic, or high maintenance.

For me, even just hearing the word brings back years of therapy visits and coping skills, fears I learned to overcome and others that still have a chokehold on certain parts of my life. It’s a reminder - even in a conversation where I am with friends and feel accepted and loved - that I am different and can’t see the “normal” meaning of the word when it carries so much more weight for me. It reminds me that my lived experiences are so different from my friends and sends me on a very familiar spiral where I doubt my ability to blend in socially and form friendships that are true and deep and meant to last.

It might seem like such a little moment in a big conversation or a word casually thrown aside as part of a common expression. And yet, I urge everyone reading this to consider the language you use. I’ve had to do the same multiple times, especially when I started writing my blog for No Shame On U and was educated about the different words that could evoke a response like this in others.

I’ve been told many times that I’m too sensitive for feeling this way. After all, it’s only a word - what can it do?

In the moment, the word brings me back to my worst moments and makes me wonder if my OCD is “showing.” I feel the urge to hide, to withdraw from the conversation and potentially even from the person saying it.

In the moment, even though I understand that “obsessed” is just a word in the dictionary, I feel so much more, and it’s not up to someone who doesn’t have OCD to tell me how to feel about it.

The best way to learn something like this is by reaching out the community in question. The stereotypes we live with every day are defeated just the littlest bit every time we meet someone with a lived experience that looks different from our own and it is in this way that the stigma against mental health can be shattered. Even though I feel like walls are built around me every time I hear the word “obsessed” misused, there is an opportunity there for growth and learning, if people are truly interested in helping people like me feel accepted no matter what.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.